


Distance Between Two Points

by Topicabo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Exhaustion, Flying, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Minor Injuries, Not Beta Read, Not Britpicked, Returning Home, Reunited and It Feels So Good, referenced hostage situation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-10
Updated: 2017-10-10
Packaged: 2019-01-15 16:05:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12324315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Topicabo/pseuds/Topicabo
Summary: The one thing that makes it all worth it is you.





	Distance Between Two Points

**Author's Note:**

> This one popped out after a slogging thirteen hour flight I had to take. Hate long flights, and I can only assume someone like Mycroft would as well.

There was really no way to make air travel comfortable in Mycroft’s opinion. Economy class, first class, private jet; it never seemed to make a difference. Flying was disagreeable at best, physically and mentally exhausting at worst. He hated the claustrophobic atmosphere, the droning of the engine slowly torqueing the screws of tension on either side of his temples. Sleeping pills could make the time slip past quicker, but this twenty-hour plus flight only allowed for so many of those.

 

He ached. Not just from the bruises and the gaping abyss that settled in the pit of his stomach; he couldn’t seem to manage much food no matter how he’d been urged to eat. His skin itched from the cabin pressure and dry air. He couldn’t find a position to recline in that didn’t twinge his hips or back. Rest did come in a few fitful naps, but when it didn’t, he could only stare out the window, his mind sluggish and lurching. He thought he might be sick on one or two occasions, which actually proved a welcome distraction as he focused on controlling his nausea.

 

The mission could be considered a success, at least. A messy one, but these things rarely ended in black or white terms. Hostage negotiations with any hostile regime were a veritable minefield, and certainly there was nothing at fault with his handling of the operation. The sudden revolt amongst the insurgents had come as a shock to everyone, himself most of all.

 

Two days of being blindfolded and jostled about in jeeps to their base, then three days of interrogations and rather unpleasant though ineffective attempts at coercion. Being taking captive did carry the benefit of being taken right to where the other hostages were. Thankfully the soldiers only discovered the tracking device sewn into Mycroft’s tie just as his MI6 backup was blasting into the compound.

 

One hostage had been killed in the crossfire, as well as three of his own men in the earlier ambush. But everyone else had been recovered, with the added bonus of an aggressive organisation being neutralised.

 

All in all, a job well done.

 

Mycroft closed his eyes, leaning his head against the cool glass of the airplane’s window. He’d be commended, he supposed, though this was hardly the direst of circumstances he’d managed to turn around. But he couldn’t drudge up any enthusiasm at the prospect, or even the satisfaction of having accomplished something for Queen and Country. For the greater good.

 

He felt hollow. Depleted. In the past years he was more and more aware of the sensation of being ground down. Brittle, as though once his usefulness finally dried up, he’d simply crumple into ash. Easy enough then to sweep his detritus into a bin and replace him with whomever was salivating for the opportunity at his position. Done quickly enough, it wouldn’t even cause a hitch in the system.

 

Mycroft scoffed. His thoughts often turned rather maudlin after excursions like this. It was one of the reasons he despised legwork. One of several.

 

He recognised the lights of London burning in the darkness even before the pilot announced their approach to Northolt, which was a little over ten miles away from the city. Mycroft winced at the screech of tires as they landed, internally squirming to get off this damned plane and straight into his waiting car. He struggled to stand before they’d fully stopped, fumbling with his coat and umbrella.

 

He declined the pilot’s offer of assistance in disembarking. A few of his most trusted security staff awaited him on the pavement, and he waved them off as well. He knew what he must look like. His legs shook as he made his way across the tarmac. Leaning onto his umbrella helped somewhat, but his gait was still unsteady and tentative. He felt disheveled in the spare suit he was wearing; it was scratchy, too loose. The lack of food and water during his ordeal might have contributed to the poor fit. The wind seemed to cut straight through the fabric, scattering chills up and down his spine. He plodded forward on what seemed to be the bare fumes of stubbornness.

 

He noticed his car some fifty yards away. Just a little farther now. The back passenger door opened as he approached, and he expected it to be Anthea stepping out to meet him.

 

A head of silver hair rose into view.

 

Mycroft’s feet stuttered to a halt, the air stilling in his lungs.

 

Brown eyes locked onto Mycroft, oddly bright under the artificial lights of the airfield.

 

Lips framed by advancing stubble shaped into his name, but he couldn’t hear over the rumbling thunder of plane engines, or perhaps it was the white noise in his ears.

 

Mycroft staggered forward a step, then broke into a stumbling run, adrenaline pumping strength into him that he shouldn’t have had.

 

His umbrella clattered to the ground, forgotten before it had even left his grip.

 

Those dark eyes widened, their owner darting forward, further shrinking the distance between them.

 

The surge of stamina was short lived. The world seemed to roil under Mycroft’s feet, his ribs knotting with every breath. He had to slow, gritting out a pained gasp. His head swam. For a moment he feared gravity was going to take him down.

 

Then, arms were around him, pulling him against a solid chest.

 

“Easy, easy.”

 

God, that voice; thickened, cautious, but so, so warm. Mycroft was sure he could stand starkers in the middle of the Artic so long as that voice was in his ears.

 

“I’m…alright.”

 

A gruff chuckle resonated. “And don't you just look it?” Hands moved to his shoulders, steadying him. Mycroft blinked, rapidly, desperate to clear the fuzz from his vision, to see-

_Oh._

Greg.

 

Greg.

 

His eyes were anxious, tired. Gentle fingers reached up, framing around Mycroft’s face. Mycroft watched, breathless, letting Greg’s gaze sweep over him. Here and there, Greg’s mouth tightened as he took in the darkened bruise hugging Mycroft’s eye and the angry cut streaking down his cheekbone.

 

Then his expression crumpled.

 

“There you are,” Greg whispered. He looked as though he were running on very little sleep and much too much bad coffee. He ran fretful hands over the front of Mycroft’s jacket, his upper arms, like he was trying to assess by touch what he couldn’t see. “Christ, you look rough.”

 

Mycroft swallowed, wishing that he didn’t. “You’ve seen me worse.”

 

A wobbly smile formed on Greg’s lips. “Never gets easier.” He gathered Mycroft against him again and gave a lengthy exhale. “They barely gave me any details. Just said something had gone wrong with your trip and that they were organising emergency retrieval for you. I only found out you were safe last night.”

 

Guilt seared, rising high in Mycroft’s throat. This was the real reason he now hated legwork. His own suffering mattered very little to him. He was practiced in tolerating or ignoring it.

 

It was the toll it took on Greg that truly tormented Mycroft.

 

Because ultimately, he was the one causing it.

 

And Greg would never blame him for it like he deserved.

 

Exhaustion surged forth, breaching the barricades, blasting through the last of Mycroft’s reserves. He sagged in Greg’s arms, trembling, legs barely keeping him upright. He thought he must be heavy, but Greg bore his weight as though Mycroft were no bigger than a child.

 

“Got you, love. I’ve got you,” Greg murmured, soft and soothing. “It’s okay.”

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

Greg laughed into his shoulder. “Barmy bastard. What’re you sorry for?”

 

“For- for making you worry. That you were-“

 

“Shhh, we’re not starting that. We got worrying on both our ends, yeah? Gotten into my fair share of bad situations too.” Greg stroked his hair, and one last barb of tension slackened within Mycroft’s chest. “I’m just glad you’re back.”

 

Mycroft weakly nudged his face into Greg’s neck, inhaling. Greg smelled of rain, of the aftershave Mycroft had gotten him, of the cigarettes he promised to quit but fell back on when he was stressed. The scent of everything good and decent in this wretched city that Mycroft still loved, that was worth protecting.

 

He smelled like home.

 

“Gregory?”

 

Greg shifted. “Yeah?”

 

“I love you.”

 

There was a pause. Then, Mycroft’s chin was lifted and warm lips caressed his. Carefully. Sweetly. “Love you too.”

 

Mycroft sighed, tasting Greg, drawing him deep inside.

 

His stalwart guardian. His beating heart made manifest. Raison d'être.

 

He smiled faintly. Shivered.

 

And finally breathed.

 

“Take me home,” Mycroft whispered.

**Author's Note:**

> Not sure if Mycroft went OOC, but I think he's about where I wanted him. Assuming this is Mycroft and Greg perhaps before marriage, but very solidly cemented in their relationship. If Mycroft would be weak in front of anyone, it would be Greg at that point.


End file.
